


To Everything, Turn, Turn, Turn

by Kasuchi



Category: NCIS
Genre: Ensemble Cast, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you measure a last year on earth?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Everything, Turn, Turn, Turn

**Author's Note:**

> For Lauren, the keeper of my bunny farm.

**daylights**

It was a bright, beautiful day in February when Tony coughed. A wet, phlegmy cough that seemed to wrack his whole body. Ziva and McGee were far enough away that they didn't look up, carefully canvassing the scene in a widening spiral pattern. Gibbs and Ducky, however, both turned their attention to him. Palmer resolutely kept his head down, knowing this was not his fight, and studied the dead petty officer in the park.

Tony held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm fine." 

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. Beneath the knit hat, his eyebrows and errant strands of hair dangled like icicles. "DiNozzo." 

"I'm _fine_ ," Tony repeated, gloved hands clapping together. Unfortunately, this was when his body decided to unleash another set of wracking coughs. Tony nearly bent double, the coughs so strong. Gibbs was suddenly at his side, one firm gloved hand on his arm, the other on his back. Tony took in a shuddering breath of ice-cold air and straightened. By now, even McGee and Ziva were looking. Tony shook off Gibbs's hands.

"Anthony, perhaps it is best if you waited in the ME van." Ducky paused, as if considering his words. "With your cold and this weather, we don't want to take any chances." 

"It's just a cold, guys."

"Not for you," Gibbs stated. "Van. Now."

"The sketching--"

"McGee or Ziva can do that. Go sit. In the van."

Tony knew better than to argue with that voice. He coughed again, ribs aching with the force of it, and took shaky steps to the car.

**sunsets**

It was April when they watched the sun set on the horizon. The air turned chilly, wet with the rain that still hangs in the air. It had been humid and cool all day; the night was looking to be more of the same. 

Ziva cast a glance at Tony in the passenger seat, his breathing sounding labored. "You have had that cold for months," she said succinctly, eyes scanning the exterior of the brownstone they were surveilling through her night vision binoculars. 

"It's just a cold," Tony muttered, coughing into a kerchief. 

She raised an eyebrow. "Where did you get a handkerchief in this day and age?"

"Had a few from Uncle Clyde that I'd stuffed somewhere." He dabbed at his face with the cloth, and Ziva finally noticed that he was pale and shivering.

"Tony!" Dropping the binoculars, she pressed a hand to his skin. It was clammy and warm, too warm. "You are running a fever." 

"It's not that bad," he said, defensive. 

"Not that bad?! Tony, you know you--" She cut herself off with a curse, the Hebrew instinctive. "We are going back." 

"No, we are not." He glared at her in the darkness. "It's just the wet in the air. I'm fine. You can't abort the mission."

"But--"

"No," he interrupted. "You said it earlier. If we can't get this guy tonight, he's going to know we know he knows and bolt."

"That sentence made no sense."

"Not the point, Ziva. We stay with the plan." He leaned back in the seat, breathing sounding wet to her ears. "It's just my body catching up to me," he said quietly.

She bit her lip. "You should stop eating so many fried foods," she chided, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears.

**midnights**

When Tony opened his eyes, he recognized the sound of the breathing machine, the pattern of the ceiling tiles, the smell of sanitizer and bleach. 

"Hello, hospital," he muttered. He licked his lips. His mouth was dry. 

In the corner, McGee started. "Tony!" His voice was thick with sleep -- or lack thereof.

"Water, McSleepy. If you don't mind." His voice was a rasp. 

Fumbling with the pitcher just out of Tony's eyesight, McGee filled a plastic cup with water, then placed in a straw and handed it to Tony.

Tony raised an eyebrow.

"It's a bendy straw," McGee said defensively. 

Tony offered a small smile and sipped the water. It was tepid, not cold, but he drank the entire cup and handed it back to McGee, who refilled it. Tony coughed again, and McGee's hands shook. 

"How did I end up here?"

McGee handed Tony the cup and took a deep breath. "You stopped breathing," McGee said carefully. "You took a nap behind your desk and you stopped breathing. Tony." 

Tony said nothing, averted his eyes, drank his water. 

"Tony," McGee repeated, voice more urgent. "You stopped breathing. _Breathing_." He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I didn't know what to do," he confessed, voice quiet and shaking. "You stopped breathing and you were so still. The doctor says you have fluid in your lungs and you stopped breathing -- _breathing_ \--" McGee's words stopped abruptly as he pressed his hands to his face. 

"Calm down, Probie. I'm still here." Tony schooled his features into something reassuring, masking his resignation. "Probie. _Tim._ "

McGee rubbed his face with his hands. "Yes, Tony?"

"It's okay. It's gonna be okay." 

McGee looked away. "Really?"

"Yeah," he lied. "I'm gonna be fine." 

**cups of coffee**

"I'm dying, Boss." 

Gibbs paused, his usual coffee halfway to his lips. Carefully, he set it down and looked at Tony. "No, you're not."

Tony laughed, but it turned into wracking coughs. "Sorry, Boss, but a pep talk isn't going to save me this time."

"At least let me try, DiNozzo." 

Tony shook his head, his jaw clenched tightly. Gibbs saw his eyes take on a telltale shine before Tony turned away. Tony's shoulders and body shook from his intermittent sobs and coughing, both sounds heartbreaking. His body seemed suddenly small in the hospital bed.

"Don't you want to stop crying now?" Gibbs said quietly, hoping Tony cottoned on.

Tony hiccuped, coughed, and swiped at his eyes. "I don't think I can. I'm only human."

**inches**

"He's dying," McGee said flatly.

Ziva slammed her hand against the surface of her desk. Nearby, Abby and Ducky, so somber, started. "Do not say that."

"Why not? It's the truth, isn't it? He's dy--"

She stood. "Stop speaking, McGee, or I will make you stop myself." Her hand fisted against the desktop. "It is _Tony_. He cannot die. That is not the way of things."

Tony's empty desk sat in front of her, the surface still strewn with papers and mementos of his life, a jacket slung over the back of the chair.

**miles**

The click and hiss of the breathing machine was regular and steady. Abby knew what was happening -- her biology was nearly as good as her chemistry, after all -- but no amount of knowledge was comfort. 

Tony's face was gaunt. He had lost a lot of weight and muscle as his body slowly shut down his systems. The nurses had been whispering, but Abby paid their words no mind. She and Death understood one another. 

He stirred. "Hey, Abby," he said, his voice hoarse. She reached out and squeezed his hand.

"You want a glass of water?"

He nodded slowly, the tubes in his nose jostling with the movement. She poured out a cup of tepid water, then helped guide the straw for him. When the glass was empty, he waved away her offer of more. 

"Where are Ducky and Palmer?"

"Their turn ended a couple of hours ago. I've been here for a while, reading." She held up her copy of _The Castle of Otranto_ and gave him a small smile. 

He let out a hissy noise that she realized was a laugh. "You are something else." 

She shrugged.

He licked his lips. "Abby? Could....could you read to me?"

She nodded, blinking away tears and clearing her throat. As she read aloud from the novel, his eyes slid shut and his breathing slowed.

He didn't wake up.

**laughter**

It was Gibbs who delivered the eulogy. 

Not to say no one else spoke, mind. Just that, where Tony's fraternity brother and buddy from OSU had told funny, charming stories of a young Tony's crazy antics, or when a Baltimore cop had told of Tony's dogged perseverance through tough situations, it had been cathartic. But, as was right, it was Gibbs who was left with the solemn task of helping them all say goodbye. 

"I'm not very good at speaking about my feelings." He grimaced briefly, then took a steadying breath. "Tony was....was like a son to me." Gibbs paused for a long moment. "He always had my six." 

In the front row, the five of them -- Abby, Ziva, Ducky, McGee, and Palmer -- sat solemnly, eyes glassy as they watched their usually stoic boss quietly start to crumble. 

Gibbs cleared his throat. "I've buried a lot of my family already. My first wife, my....my daughter." His fingers flexed on the podium. "I never thought I'd outlive Tony, to be honest. He is-- _was_ always so full of energy." He flashed a wry smile. "I thought it was all that sugar he took in his coffee." 

Abby chuckled softly. Behind her, Director Vance's impassive expression slipped and he couldn't help but smile also. 

"I can't count how many times Tony saved my life. He always had my six -- had my back. We worked together almost twelve years. That's longer than I served with my brothers in arms." 

Ziva's fingers, laced together in her lap, slowly turned white. 

"I don't know why he stayed, why he didn't seize the chance to try for bigger things. He was smart, and resourceful, and could charm anyone. He would have made it a long way."

McGee bowed his head, hands on his knees, and took a long, slow breath. Beside him, Palmer rubbed his back in a comforting gesture.

"I'm glad he stayed with us, though. Our....our little family just isn't going to be the same without you, Tony." Gibbs turned toward the closed casket, the portrait of Tony beside it smiling brilliantly into the audience. Slowly, Gibbs reached out and ran his hand gently along the head, a goodbye. 

**strife**

An old man, broad-shouldered and wearing a heavy black coat stood at the foot of the grave, eyes running over the letters laser-carved into the headstone.

Anthony Rawley DiNozzo, Jr. 

Carefully, the figure laid a bouquet of white lillies at the base of the stone, then stepped back. A hand ran over his eyes, wiping away tears.

"I'm sorry, son," he said quietly. "I'm so, so sorry." 

He stood there a few more minutes, until it began to rain, before walking away.

**Author's Note:**

>   1. Title is from "Turn! Turn! Turn!" by The Byrds. The sections are from "Season of Love" from RENT. I chose the title because I didn't want to call the fic "Season of Love," but I still wanted to allude to it. So I tried to think of things with "seasons" in the text, and this song came to mind. It became oddly appropriate, as Ecclesiastes (which make up the verses of the song) goes like this:
>
>> To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:  
>  A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted;  
>  A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;  
>  A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;  
>  A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;  
>  A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;  
>  A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;  
>  A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
> 
> These, in turn, inspired the sections themselves; each section (roughly) correlates to a line of the text.
>   2. The exchange Gibbs and Tony share at the end of "coffee" is from Bell, Book, and Candle.
>   3. The book Abby is reading is real. Look it up -- it's the first Gothic novel.
>   4. Gibbs' eulogy was the hardest scene to write.
>   5. Wordcount: 1,789
> 



End file.
